The Slasher of Saville Row episode 2: the third coat
by jayrosario
Summary: Sherlock takes a trip to Savile Row, where some apparently bloody work has taken place.


The Second Coat, episode 2

Sherlock burst back into the room, eyes blazing.

'John! Come. We haven't a moment to lose.'

'I'm sorry,' Mrs Hudson said, hovering nearby. 'I really didn't think you'd want that messy old coat.'

'It's who _else _wants the coat,' Sherlock snapped back. 'That's the issue. John!' he barked again.

But John was distracted by his mobile, which had just received a text, and now it was ringing. 'Hold on, Sherlock. This could be relevant. Yes?' He spoke into the phone. 'Yes, this is John Watson. …But - '

Someone was speaking at length on the other end, and John's face was going through a play of expression that was not easy to follow.

'But we already have it,' John said, cutting off the flow from the caller. 'It was delivered only a few minutes ago… No. Really – It's in perfect condition… Absolutely. And I actually have to go now. Something else has come up.'

John cut the call, and looked at Sherlock. 'That was the sales manager from the tailor's. Some mix up their end. He was apologizing because something happened to the coat I ordered and he said they wouldn't be able to deliver it today.'

'What?' Sherlock grimaced, '_What_ happened to it?'

'I don't know. He just said it had got damaged. He sounded very upset. Distraught, in fact. They do pride themselves on the service. But it must be a mix up. And I've just had a text from the post office to say there's a parcel to collect. _Another_ one. It's an express delivery and has to be signed for. Maybe someone else has remembered your birthday.'

Sherlock raked both hands through his hair. 'Right. OK. Change of plan. First stop Savile Row.'

They hailed a cab in Baker Street and Sherlock swore as it negotiated the detours of the London traffic system.

'I told you we should get bikes,' said John. 'We could have ridden straight across Oxford Street – and we'd be there by now.'

Sherlock ignored him, and a few seconds later came out with a volley of instructions.

'Drop me on the corner there. Then take John back to the Baker Street post office - wait while he collects the parcel. John. Collect the parcel but don't open it. In fact, don't touch it at all. Get them to put it in a plastic bag. Have you got that letter opener with you?'

'Yes, but I thought you just told me not to - '

'Give it to me.' Sherlock took the silver knife and cut the top button off his coat. 'Take this and the parcel to Molly in the lab and tell her to start with the fingerprinting. I should join you there within the hour.'

He got out of the cab and slammed the door, took a couple of steps, wheeled round and flung the door open again just as the driver was releasing the clutch.

'Watch out!' yelled the guy. 'Don't you know anything about occupational health and safety?'

'Absolutely,' said Sherlock. 'If anyone shoots at you, keep your head down. You're likely to be followed.'

He slammed the door for the second time, and strode up Savile Row towards the shop entrance, where a small group of suited men were standing in earnest discussion.

'Ah! Mr Holmes.' A slightly built man with an elegant look about him turned aside from the group and approached Sherlock. 'I do apologise for this situation. I'm afraid someone has played a practical joke, and the coat is ruined. Of course we must take responsibility for the breech of security, but we can't figure out how it happened. No-one has ever broken into the premises before. We were just discussing whether we should call the police.'

'Perhaps I should help you make that decision,' said Sherlock crisply. 'Let me see what you're talking about.'

He was guided through the shopfront to a room at the back where a row of dummies stood in line, each wearing a different coat. The one in the centre was instantly recognizable as Sherlock's trench, and at first glance it looked in perfect condition, but the manager swiveled it round to reveal a set of long slashes down the back, each edged with what looked like blood.

'That's not real,' said the man reassuringly. 'The rascals left the paint behind them – there.'

Sherlock, who had already registered the tube of artist's oil paint on the window sill, with crimson stains around the cap, ignored him and began to inspect the buttons on the front of the coat, as the manager continued to talk.

'It's not even Halloween. I suppose, Mr Holmes, it's some prankster who's impressed with your reputation. All those murder cases you've solved – quite impressive I must say - '

Sherlock had taken the letter opener out of his pocket, and sliced a second button off the coat he was wearing. He held it out. 'Is this one of your buttons?'

The man took it and turned it over. 'No, sir. A good imitation, but no. The metal work is inferior. And now you mention it – would you mind, Mr Holmes, if I took a closer look at your coat. I hope you won't be offended, but I have a suspicion -'

'So do I,' said Sherlock, slipping out of the coat, which the manager began to inspect with a professional eye. 'It's fake.'

'Yes Sir. I'm very much afraid so, Sir.'

'But this one - ' Sherlock fingered the lapel of the damaged original coat 'This one is tailored to your standards, clipped, turned and hand finished by the new assistant you employed three days ago.'

'Yes Sir. That's quite correct Sir. A lad from the design college who joined us as an apprentice, but he's got the skills to go straight into the cutting and finishing side of things, and there was no stopping him. But how did you - '

'Cutting and finishing,' Sherlock echoed. 'Yes, exactly.'

'So you think we should call the police?'

'Not just any police. I'll have a word with Lestrade.'

'Thankyou, Sir. I'd appreciate that. It would be more discreet.'

'And I'll need to take both coats with me.'

'Certainly, Sir. Would you like them wrapped?'

'Do you have a garbage bag? One of those big plastic ones?'

The man's face expression changed. 'You don't propose to put one of our coats in one of those, I hope Sir. Even if it has been damaged.'

'Forensics,' was all Sherlock said in reply.

Fifteen minutes later, he was in the lab, where Molly had fingerprinted and x-rayed the parcel, and begun to make tests on the button.

'This has got something inside it,' she said, holding up the button.

'Yes,' said Sherlock. 'A tracking device. Leave it in there for now. It may prove useful. It means that whoever installed it knows where we are, right now – which means, in effect, that we know where he is, since he intends to follow us about. But we're one step ahead.'

'How?' asked John, still trying to catch up himself, with this line of reasoning.

'In the first instance,' said Sherlock, he knew where we were but we didn't know he knew. Now I know he knows, but he doesn't know I know, and he doesn't know I know where he is.'

'Right,' said Molly.

'Then where is he?' asked John.

'Given this thing must have quite a range to be any use at all, he could be outside in the street somewhere, waiting till we make our next move.'

John reached for his jacket. 'Then why don't I just go and round him up.'

'Not worth it,' said Sherlock. 'He's just some casual employed by what he thinks is a private detective agency. He's more use to us if he continues to do what he's doing. We can turn the trick back on the conjurer. What's in the parcel? Scissors?'

'How did you guess?' asked Molly, then followed up. 'Dumb question. You never even need to guess, do you. You always already know. Are you going to open it?'

'Of course. It's my birthday present.' Sherlock, who had pulled on some plastic gloves, was ripping the paper apart with the silver letter knife. He took out a greeting card, and read the message aloud: 'Happy birthday old boy. Stay at the cutting edge.'

Next he drew out a pair of tailor's shears, the blades smeared with red. 'I think we'll find,' he said, 'that this is _real_ blood.'


End file.
